And yet she’d felt angry most of her life. Angry at her father. Angry at injustice. Angry that men repeatedly did unto women what they would loathe having done unto them.
Redver must be an alchemist, because he had turned all her fury into passion, and she’d melted in his arms.
The madam leaned back into her chair. “When I asked you if you were angry about what happened this evening, you assumedI was exclusively referring to Almack’s. But that wasn’t your only adventure, was it?” She paused. “Do you trust me enough to tell me about what went on above stairs?”
“Above stairs?” she asked innocently. She’d been lulled into believing she would not have to discuss the incident.
“I know you recognized the Marquess of Redver. I know you kissed him.”
Eliza sucked in sharply.
“Redver and Harbury are seldom out of each other’s company. If, as I suspect, your godmother will insist that Harbury make amends to your sister, you may find yourself in the company of the duke and his friends quite frequently. If you haven’t been formally introduced to Redver yet, he will certainly recognize you when you are.”
“He won’t,” she quickly assured. “He-he didn’t see my face. I told him to cover his eyes before I removed my veil.”
The widow’s surprise was enough to set her own veil swishing. “And he complied?”
Eliza nodded.
“Interesting…” She drummed her fingers. “I would have expected a gently bred young lady to find the experience distressing, but you don’t appear worse for the wear.”
“Are you suggesting I am not gently bred?”
“You ordered a man in an advanced stage of deshabille to put on a blindfold and then kissed him. If your sister had done such a thing—”
“She’d still be having the vapors,” Eliza admitted. She still wasn’t sure why she’d done what she done. But she knew she had never felt so vital. “Ihadto challenge him. He is arrogant and insufferable.” And passionate and compelling. “He mistook me for a lightskirt.”
The widow shook her head. “The woman he mistook you for is not what you would call a lightskirt. In fact, she came to me much as yourself, in search of a way to meet a need.”
A strange sensation shivered up Eliza’s spine. “Are you saying that you arrange assignations for proper ladies, too? Ladies who do not work in that, ah, trade?”
The widow straightened the inkwell at the top of her blotter. “What I’m saying is that we strive, here at the Lyon’s Den, to meet the needs and desires of all our patrons.”
The reflection of the candle’s flame cast a tiny white glow on the widow’s smooth, onyx ring as she laid both her gloved hands flat on the desk.
“What you need is a respectable marriage. But what do you want, Miss Wainwright?”
Unbidden, she’d the sensation of hot lips against her neck. A warm, insistent hand against her spine. She relieved that heady, heady sense of power. What she wanted was a sense of control. What she wanted was vengeance—if not on Harbury—than on a close conduit.
“What I want, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she said coolly, “is to see the Marquess of Redver on his knees.”
“I thought you might.” The widow’s laugher fluttered her veil. “I have a proposition for you. Would you be willing to take a small risk to teach the marquess a lesson he will never forget?”
“And what of my respectable marriage?”
“My dear, if you are willing to enter your marriage slightly more experienced than most, I believe I could arrange for you to have both.Scientia potentia est.”
“Knowledge is power,” Eliza translated. She leaned forward. “I’m listening…”
